


The People Who Walked In Darkness

by CapGirlCanuck



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Feels, BROTHERS2INFINITY, Christmas Angst, Christmas Special, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Bromance, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Quote: I'm with you 'til the end of the line (Marvel), References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:48:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28315542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapGirlCanuck/pseuds/CapGirlCanuck
Summary: Sometimes loving hurts.(The Christmas after Sarah Rogers's death, Bucky is struggling to hold it together.)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers
Comments: 10
Kudos: 13





	The People Who Walked In Darkness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Griselda_Banks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Griselda_Banks/gifts), [SergeantToMyCaptain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SergeantToMyCaptain/gifts).



> For my girls, with all my love. Merry Christmas!

It was Christmas. Late in the evening, clock ticking toward eleven, yes. But still definitely Christmas. And Bucky wasn’t crying. Not yet. He could feel the tightness in his chest that threatened it, and he made himself breath deep and steady.

He stood quite still by the door, staring into the dimness of the apartment, toward the shadow of the couch. Water dripped from the bottom of his coat, making the softest sound on the floor.

Bucky had come home from his second job at the dry goods store yesterday afternoon, and he had hauled Steve off that couch, threatening to carry him down the street in his arms if that was what it took to get him to the Barnes’s apartment.

Steve had actually slugged Bucky in the chin, but it was weak, and the younger man had dragged himself to the bedroom to change and follow Bucky out into the misty world that couldn’t seem to make up it’s mind between rain and snow.

The old family apartment had been crowded, but happy. Mostly. They had gone to church in the evening, and again Christmas morning, and opened presents around the scrawny, but beautifully decorated, tree.

But always there was the dark cloud that Steve wore around him, that inevitably enveloped anyone who sat next to him. More than once he had disappeared and been found either outside, sitting on the step, or in a corner asleep. He was snappish and cranky when disturbed, and only Bucky and his mom had found the heart to keep trying to draw him into the family’s warmth.

And now they were back, in their own much tinier apartment, in the dark, and Steve had said nothing, just dropped his coat in a heap, left his dirty shoes beside it, and vanished to flop down on the couch. He had not looked at Bucky, had said no word of cheer or thanks throughout the whole day. Not even when he opened the one present that wasn’t a shirt or socks or a warm knit hat, but instead a box of beautiful colored pencils from Bucky, the best that Bucky had been able to find. A rainbow of colors ready to spill onto paper, and Steve had just laid it aside.

Bucky held himself very still, because he didn’t know what he might do once he started moving.

He wanted to catch Steve up by the collar and give him a good hard shaking. He wanted to box his ears and make him smile and see him cry for once, and then, maybe, it would be okay if Bucky cried too. He knew it wasn’t fair, this anger toward his best friend in the world, his Stevie who had lost so much and could see no way out of his darkness.

But _you’re not the only one here who hurts!_

Bucky realized he had stopped breathing, and gulped air in a loud gasp. Before he spun and was back out the door, closing it ever so softly behind him.

He walked blindly, through the rain that was no longer rain but huge fat snowflakes that melted the moment they touched the pavement.

His face was hot, and his breathing was ragged, and he _hurt._

Aunt Sarah, he’d called her. A second mother, who made the best gingerbread in the world, and sang like a bird. He missed her.

A couple times that day, he had caught his mom wiping her eyes, then going to find Steve for a long hug. Winnifred Barnes had found a sister in Sarah Rogers. Until she lost her.

A horn blared, and a taxi swerved to miss him. He shook his head, stumbled on.

Why couldn’t Steve remember that other people had loved his mom too? Other people missed her, and remembered her, and grieved her. That wasn’t something limited to Steve alone. Steve was just so stuck inside himself, sometimes he seemed to forget even Bucky’s existence.

He would sleep on the couch for days on end, and then he would draw feverishly, but only ever in black and white, and only ever depicting lost, sad, lonely things. And then he would get angry when Bucky tried to encourage him, would tear up the pictures, and go back to lying on the couch, and not speak for an entire day. And he hardly ate anything.

Bucky was full on crying now, because as angry as he was, there was so much more balling up in his throat, feeling like it might actually break his heart in two and bust his sternum wide open. Because he loved Steve so very much, he wanted nothing more for his best friend—his brother in every way but law—than to smile. Just once.

Steve was so lost, he was drowning inside himself, and nothing Bucky did seemed to help.

Bucky wanted to hold Steve, and let him cry, and _talk_. About anything, anything at all, even the darn weather, if he could just look into Steve eyes, and see Steve, his Steve, looking back at him. In that way Bucky almost appreciated the rages, because at least Steve was aware of Bucky, at least he was doing something, at least it would put a spot of color in Steve’s cheeks.

Bucky was trying, he was giving Steve everything he had. He worked two jobs, he made sure Steve ate, and had art supplies. He would talk about the future, about college, about what they would do next year and the year after that. He read the papers out loud, he pointed out little things he thought were pretty whenever he dragged Steve out for a walk. He was _trying._

And it wasn’t enough.

He was so tired, so worried, honestly he wanted to go drink until he passed out, he wanted to go fight someone and smash their head in, he wanted Steve to say his name and give him a hug.

Head down, he walked smack into a lamppost.

Blinking at the pain, one hand went to the top of his head, the other grasped the iron post as he swayed. And then he was smashing his fist– No, that hurt too much, so he switched to smashing his palm against the hard, cold, unyielding metal.

He was sobbing, breathless, and he had to stop and lean his head against the lamppost, too tired to hold himself together any longer. If anyone walked past, he didn’t notice.

**

It was still snowing.

Somewhere he heard a church chime the half-hour. That would make it eleven-thirty.

He walked a little faster, knowing he needed to get some sleep, ready for a full day’s work tomorrow. He checked the next street sign. Gosh, he had walked farther than he thought.

Bucky was spent, drained. The pain had faded into an emptiness, a distant kind of ache. He dodged two tramps, bickering over a crate they each wanted to sleep in.

It was probably another ten minutes walk, before he turned into the street and saw his apartment building up ahead. He could see someone standing on the sidewalk in front of the building, on the edge of the glow cast by the closest streetlight.

Bucky saw the person take a few steps in one direction, then stop and turn to walk toward Bucky. Whoever it was seemed to notice another person and abruptly turned and stalked in the other direction.

Bucky’s heart leaped when he saw the way the light caught on the blond hair, and he recognized the way the person thrust their hands in their pockets, hunched their shoulders.

“Steve!”

He broke into a jog; the other man spun, then stood still and waited.

“Buck. Where were you?” Steve looked up at him, frowning. “You can’t just disappear like that. I was going to look for you.” Some of the disapproval faded. “I didn’t know which direction you’d gone.”

Bucky choked, and then he was hugging Steve for all he was worth, and Steve’s arms wrapped slowly around his middle underneath the long coat. He did not cry, only pressed his cheek against Steve’s hair.

He said nothing, because he didn’t know what to say, and his breath melted the snowflakes that had settled on Steve’s head.

“Bucky?”

Steve’s voice was muffled in Bucky’s sweater, but the uncertainty was clear in his tone.

“I-I’m really sorry I didn’t get you anything for Christmas.”

Bucky felt the tension in Steve’s arms, as if he wanted to pull away, but couldn’t let go. Bucky tightened his own arms around Steve’s thin shoulders, tried to swallow the rock in his throat, and suddenly laughed a queer, choky laugh. “That’s… that’s jake, Stevie, just jake, you little punk.”

He laughed harder, pulling back to catch Steve by the shoulders and shake him. Those eyes, big with puzzlement and apology and something that bordered on a smile.

Without another word he picked Steve off his feet, and spun them in a few circles, snowflakes swirling around them, light blurring out the shadows.

They came to a staggering halt, breathless. “What?” Steve panted. “Bucky, are you drunk or something?” He knit his eyebrows. “You’re just way too happy for someone who didn’t get a Christmas present.”

“You’re such a dumbbell.” Bucky shook his head, still laughing. Or was he crying? Maybe they were the same thing. It didn’t matter, he didn’t care if Steve saw him like this. “Come on. You need to get inside before you catch a cold.”

They were inside, shucking off their things, Steve not noticing how he left his things on the floor, and Bucky picking them up without thinking, when Steve mumbled, “I wanted to. Honest.” He had his back to Bucky, running his hand along the edge of the countertop by the stove. "And I didn’t even thank you for the colors. But I couldn’t think of anything that was good enough. If I tried to draw it was like…like talking to a dead person.

“Nothing.”

The long pause before the last word sounded worn, as if he had just used up all the energy he had for talking.

Bucky gave him a shove. “Go turn the lamp on and sit on the couch. I’ll make hot chocolate. And get into dry pyjamas. Your cuffs are soaked.”

A little sigh, and he wandered off to do as he was told.

“Honestly, how did you do it, Aunt Sarah?” Bucky muttered under his breath. “As much self-preservation as ever.”

He stood in his stocking feet, and leaned against the sink in front of the window, watched the snow fall. Exhaustion was settling on his shoulders.

He had promised her, promised to watch out for and take care of Steve as much as he could. And then he had promised Steve. How had he put it? _“I’m with you till the end of the line.”_ Something like that, anyway. Well, he wasn’t backing down on either of those promises anytime soon. He just needed hope, just a little bit of light, to let him know that someday Steve would get better. Someday they would smile and laugh again.

He sat at one end of the couch, Steve curled against his side. They didn’t talk really, except for when the little clock struck midnight, and Steve mumbled, “Merry Christmas.”

Bucky smiled, kissed the top of his head. “Merry Christmas to you too, Stevie.”

Steve was only half finished his hot chocolate when his head began to nod, and the mug came to rest on Bucky’s leg.

Quietly Bucky took the mug, and drained it and his own. Setting them on the table by the lamp, he grabbed the blankets draped over the back of the couch, pulled them over Steve, draped one over his own legs. Steve was asleep now, he was pretty sure. He had slid down against Bucky’s side, and Bucky shifted him so that his head was pillowed on Bucky’s thigh.

One hand came up to grip the edge of the blanket, and Bucky heard something like paper rustle. Curious, Bucky noticed something white sticking out from between Steve’s fingers, and reached to pry whatever it was loose.

A scrap of art paper, with a few scribbled lines done in pencil, and clearly erased several times, as the author figured out what to say

_Dear Bucky,_

_Thank you for not leaving._

_Thank you for being my friend._

_Steve_

When-? Bucky shook his head, as his eyes watered. It didn’t matter.

“Not enough, huh?” he muttered, brushing the pale hair off the pale forehead. “Just keep being here, okay, pal? That’s enough. That’s plenty enough.”

Bucky had slept sitting up enough times to make it easy for him, and he reached to switch the lamp off, before leaning back, getting comfortable.

He stared into the darkness, listened to Steve’s even breathing.

He didn’t know how long it would take, but he would be here for Steve through all of it. Walking in the darkness until they came to the light.

“I won’t leave,” he whispered. “You couldn’t make me. I’ll be your friend tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that.”

He was putting himself to sleep and let his eyes finally close. Steve’s weight was warm against his leg, comforting. Alive. 

“And next Christmas…”

What had he been about to say?

“Next Christmas…” He sighed.

“I’ll see you smile.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you all have a very Merry Christmas.


End file.
